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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 24 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 5:22 PM Meanwhile… and in elsewheres,
unbeknownst… Doors to jails were opening and
closing behind miscreants all over town as Yvette Hall, spokesperson of the
CNC’s youth and law enforcement caucus approached the end of her appeal
onstage in Masty Hall. "So, in conclusion,
this convention must say No! to racism. The Catfish
rejects outrageous sentencing policies and profiling apartheid, now it's time
for me to hear you! Black lives do
matter! Let’s all say No! No!... to police
and judicial apartheid..." |
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The crowd shouted back and Tom Beedle lifted
his voice to Glenn. "Problem solved," he winked. "Once we added
the word 'citizen' after American in the resolution, Rinker said Tillerman would tag along. He's not really a racist, you
know… thinks colored people are fine and dandy so long as they praise Jesus,
work hard and don't go off raping and robbing and using plastic bags, chewing kat and strapping on explosive belts to blow the rest of us
to Kingdom Come. Take public
transportation instead of driving and pouring their used motor oil, if they
must drive... as a consequence of the bipartisan racist rejection of extending
bullet trains to rural counties... down into the sewer through that grate in
the Auto Zone parking lot instead of taking it to a recycling depot. What's
deplorable about that? Americans, especially those already on the margins of
society, have had a different perspective on illegal aliens since the one-six
and nine-eleven. Black lives? Whose jobs are all those Mexicans and such
coming up from God-knows-where taking away?
Not ours!
“Anyway,
Henri, Potter and the University... they've come to a mutual arrangement. Those
local fucks won't be getting out after the convention, ain’t
getting out for a long, long time. We're gonna blast them with RICO, RPA, with
terrorism counts and conspiracy... you watch, someone's gonna discover stuff
you can make bombs out of in dingy apartments all over this burg! Pam Bondi gonna
shit her pants once we get Interpol into the mix... talking to locals about a
misdemeanor being a felony, but talking to foreigners about misdemeanors,
that's a Class-B felony, treason, maybe, twelve to twenty years… and then they
get extradited to Geneva or somewhere to face war criminal trials – maybe get
Vladimir Putin as their cellie. And by the time those bums get out, Wat's got
his projects underway, the germ splicers have set down roots, we'll all have
gone to Washington to get rich and you won't be able to recognize this
city."
"Tom,"
Glenn objected, "this seems a little, well, unconstitutional for the Coalition?"
"What
constitution? That old piece of paper got rolled and smoked back in twenty
sixteen. This… this is the future of America… Catfish
America!" Beedle smirked, slapping Glenn on the shoulder. "Our new
America! Beyond
crazyness, beyond weakness, beyond Trump. America!
And, since we operate by the higher principle, the Golden Rule... them
what invests gold gets to make rules and makes the NSA and the others and the
police enforce them. Don't worry, John Q-Anon public will back us once the bullshit
starts flying, our bullshit... Trump,
at least, proved that by getting all those unemployed steelworkers to applaud
his economic team from Goldman/Sachs… in fact, it's the main reason we have to
deflect some of that civil liberties shit Jack put in his book while supporting
useful causes, taking out all that indirect repression like dope laws and maybe
prostitution in a few places and pick up the Bob Kraft votes, and money, and,
of course, casinos everywhere!… raking in the tax revenues that used to go to
foreigners, Indians and ghetto criminals… and lay down the facts. Americans
like a man who speaks his mind and does what he says without any of that
Democrat or Republican deviousness, even if there's nothing in that mind
whatsoever... look at McCain, Jesse Ventura, Perot before he went bananas and,
of course, our beloved – so to speak – President Trump two point zero. We’re deal makers, just like him, and we are truthiests... Hitler knew that... everything he had in mind
he put down on paper, so there wouldn't be any surprises, any complaints, total
transparency and, remember, the Germans elected him into office..."
"But
wasn't it as Vice-Chancellor?"
Glenn objected.
"Even
better, considering what I told you couple of hours ago... which
you get to keep under your hat, thank you! And it'll go even better because
Vance ain’t Hitler and we're not Germans, we don't
kill people for no reason... just ease them out of the way and on over the
county line when they mess with our plans.
Except for that Brian kill-guy on Fox; we're the Americans, progressive
Americans... but without all of that tired old baggage of race and effeminate
liberalism, just good old grit and gumption, balls to the wall. We go all the way back to the Wild West in
1889 - free silver and legal poker rooms
and whorehouses in every town, run by a sage ol’ Madam name of Alice or
Lucille, something good and American like that… Babs!... with all the, you know, red velvet couches and trappings and a
retired college football star at the door, one of those dark ones who blew all
his NCAAdvertising money on dope, then blew out a knee
and never made it in the NFL. We're the good
guys! We're not like Nazis, not at all!
Imagine a Trump/Tillerman Republican ticket in
November!"
"Doesn’t
that violate the Constitution. More to the point, does our Cop on the Run
know that?"
"Tony?"
The lawyer's hard, greedy features softened like a baby's clutching for candy
as Hall continued stirring up Masty Hall by
denouncing violent videogames, one of the favorite targets of the Catfish and
his NRA peanut gallery. "Tony's a sweetheart, and he's already shmoozing up all of his Hollywood friends. It's OK... they
hate this virtual stuff too, costs them jobs, money! Remember, the Supreme
Court… before the
assassinations? They ruled that
computer-generated so-called “actors” like that fusion of John Gielgud and
Johnny Knoxville aren't eligible for residuals if fifty-one percent of the
pixels are sliced off somebody dead for more than sixteen years... do the math!
We are going to blow the Democrats away by stealing all their
celebrities... four, six years down the road, the Republicans' too, if they're
not all on respirators by then. Not only
that, Reyna’s buying up the holographic rights to Errol Flynn through channels;
the Duke and Jimmy Stewart to do her hair restoration spots, the way she
utilized Marilyn and Coco Chanel. Jack's
invited Senator Rock, Ted Nugent and those duck shoot guys back to Miller's
Ridge for a little hunting in the fall... talk about a Dick Cheney sort of
accident waiting to happen!... but we're waiting on that until his archery lessons
with that babe from the Hunger Games... hey, there's Anne! What's she doing
with that fuckin' loser?"
Anne,
caucusing with Paul Rinker, waved Glenn off as a messenger approached Beedle… whose face devolved from smug amusement to
harrowing rage as the man explained to him whatever it was he'd said. Glenn
suspected that the lawyer hadn't been so angry since learning that Pinhead,
making overtures to the churches... or, more likely, acting on instructions
from the Catfish to preclude any ambitious wannabe Web Woodward, Bernstein or
Drudge with a camera... had ordered the local nudie clubs shut down for the
duration of the Conks' convention. No more candy, no... Tom looked like he'd
bitten into an apple filled with razors, poison and ground glass!
Ignored
by Anne and Beedle, Glenn swayed in one direction,
then the other... feet tapping out anxious little circles on the gum and
grease-stained concrete floor of Masty Hall, head
stuck in that stifling nimbus that answered only to Lost!
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FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 5:30 PM
(time approximate)
When
the jail deputies came for their last prisoners and... with them... the
Sergeant whom Andy remembered from the late shift, all five were staring
blankly at Yvonne Jackson and Tracy Parkinson at the newsdesk,
wrapping up Live on Five, the only local competition to Nelson and his bunch
over at Eleven since, as Andy recalled, Channel Three had pulled its evening
and late news for reruns of Hogan's Heroes (that strange, campy old sitcom
about a Nazi prison camp and its wisecracking prisoners).
They
unlocked and opened the metal door, standing in the dim light of jail until one
deputy cleared his throat, saying "You'll come with us now."
His
prisoners said nothing, neither moving nor speaking as Tracy Parkinson began
the evening's roundup on the progress of Baby Claire's fundraising.
In
two steps, the short, white-haired sergeant crossed the cell, reached for the
dial, and sent Live on Five spinning off into that electronic void.
"The
charges are being dropped against all of you," the Sergeant said,
"with the exception of you, Mr. Herman. The others are free to leave. Ms. Cromartie and
Mr. Morrison, you may wish to rejoin others of your, your…” he shook his head
in disgust, "…but first, I have been informed that there are details to be
worked out with this gentleman from the Bureau of Permits."
And,
with that, Sylvester, from Disson's office manifested
under his left armpit like bureaucracy's slippery underarm angel. "That is
to say," he cooed, "a more reasonable arrangement may, perhaps, be
negotiated. Of course, should you prefer, we'll just... how you say?... call things even, and go about our businesses?"
Andy,
slipping away from the outreaching deputies, sat down, back against the wall.
"Oh. You mean I can get up, go back with you to City Hall and resume those
pointless discussions with your master while the convention's already starting,
so you have somebody to lay the blame on when things blow? Worse than they’ve blown already?"
"Andy,
it's not always about you,
it's peoples' safety... we have to try!" Rael appealed to
Victor... "Help me get him up, I think his foot's
fallen asleep!"
The
deputies shook their heads, watching, sadly, while she and Victor dragged Andy
to an upright or, at least, leaning posture.
"I
liked it better when we were just waiting to be shot," he remarked,
allowing himself to be herded out of the cell, past the puzzled faces of the
officials. “But hey…
why not? I’d like to get a look
at Disson’s face… he beat himself up better than I ever could have done…”
"That's
ridiculous!" Rael scolded. "If you stop learning, even in jail,
you've stopped learning in life! Yesterday I met the fruitarians, down from
Vermont? Blew my mind! They say that... like... grain? It's
murder, gluten’s bad as meat... worse, like abortion! Bread! Spaghetti! Like
Mary Antoinette... you know? Let them eat cake? Besides, store bought veggies
with spliced animal genes makes eating them murder, too! Murder!... all the fruitarians eat is dead fruit, naturally
fallen, not picked, and from reliable and licensed trees and, first, they
remove the seeds and plant them. They're so far advanced ethically that we're
pathetic next to them... it's terrible, but we still have the time to learn…
apologize for our sins and reform..."
All
the while she had been guiding Andy out of the cell and, once through, the
deputies shut the steel door with a whoosh and a clang. From behind the metal,
Andy could hear Ace, screaming his lungs out... presumably at Sylvester.
"Hey! Hey! What kind
of brother are you, letting them white folks go, leaving me behind.
Hey... fuck you!" his screams redounded, though diminishing with every
step Andy took towards freedom. "Fuck you, motherfucker! Fuck you!"
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RETURN to "BLACK HELICOPTERS" directory
VIEW CURRENT
COLUMN by JACK "CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and RENAISSANCE"
HAVE A GLANCE at the current episode of our occult serial,
wherein a young American encounters bizarre foreign artists and occultists –
from Aleister Crowley and William Yeats to Alfred Jarry and a young, feral Adolph Hitler…
SQUIRM! as strange,
frequently dispirited policemen in the Sanitary Republic of Barataria
battle occult New Plastic criminals for possession of that most valuable treasure
in the hygienic dictatorship of 2035 AD… the huge, white death-turd of Elvis Presley!… in...
And FOLLOW! a ragged gang of starship bloopers from a galactic Skid Row
centuries into the future and far, far away as they rehab a derelict boneship and drive it towards the white hole at the center of
the Milky Way in a reckless quest for a forbidden truth… (and
money!)...